Buzzing Neon Lights
by clautchy
Summary: Coffee shop au. Destiel. After running away from his deeply religious family, Castiel tries to assimilate into the youthful culture of cool and by random happenstances he meets the epitome of dominant masculinity, Dean Winchester. Sometimes, in the cruel normal world, strangers were nice.
1. Impressions of a Cocky Culture

"This is the very core of underground culture."

"It's a coffee shop."

"It's a _lifestyle_."

Castiel gave his cousin a steady look. He wondered if Balthazar's love for coffee and unknown record labels were an inevitable trait formed by a rebellious rejection of a restricting lifestyle. He shifted in his chair uncomfortably, ignoring his cousin's questioning gaze that had been following him for the past two hours as he tried to relax in the wooden seat. The back of his nape suddenly felt hot and sticky. Nerves, mostly.

Balthazar shrugged, "You'll understand soon, once you've settled in. You're staying here, right?"

"I've bought a flat. I don't know. We'll see how it goes," Castiel answered, and his mouth was dry. He looked down to his untouched beverage: a small long black, no milk or sugar. It was an acquired taste, and one of the few exceptions to drink that his family allowed. He was aware that he no longer had to abide by his family or their rules, but it had been ingrained into him. Old habits die hard, he supposed.

Balthazar sipped from his own cup, and as he angled it towards his lips Castiel noticed the environmentally safe sticker scribbled onto the bottom. Of course. Castiel was new to the whole freedom deal outside his family, but already he could tell that being vegan, being a social activist, wearing v-necks and listening to bands that only release their music on Bandcamp were the height of _cool_, a contrived term that Castiel already despised. He liked his cousin, and admired his defiance against their family's doctrines, but he hoped he wouldn't become like him. Life was far too short to be finicky about the type of milk used in one's coffee.

The whole place ebbed with _cool_. The henna red walls were decorated with unframed canvases of The Ramones and Polaroids of girls in plaid and boys in leather. Customers were the embodiment of cultural diversity: Hispanic hipsters; fluro-haired pot smokers; skinny airheads; and flamboyant transsexuals. The only people that didn't look they spent their nights at underground bars were the people were the actual workers. Currently, there were two girls and a guy behind the counter. Contrasting to the store, they looked entirely average.

"It's good to see you've finally gotten away, I gotta say." Balthazar interrupted his train of thought, and Castiel snapped his attention back to his cousin. He nodded quickly.

"I realised that there was so much more to life than what I was leading," he replied vaguely.

"And what made you come to that realisation?"

Castiel hesitated. He hadn't exactly come to terms with it himself. It was something he had never considered in his entire life time, and entering the later part of his twenties he feared he had joined the bandwagon of life-wasting youths a little too late. "We were passing Detroit. While Zachariah and Michael and the rest of them were doing a service in one of the local churches, I caught up with Anna. She showed me around, and I got curious."

"And then?"

"And then I saw, that our family are a bunch of ignorant, narrow-minded bigots, trying to convert everyone to God. And I still believe in God, but I've reached this point where... I don't care about him, anymore. I just want to live my own life, like everyone else."

Balthazar cracked a smile, "So you want sex?"

Typical. Castiel shifted, suddenly made uncomfortable once again. "No, I don't mean –."

"Piss off, you want sex." his cousin smirked, "Is that what happened with Anna? She introduced to some sexy friend of hers and suddenly your pants are two sizes too small?"

"_No_," Castiel groaned. "It wasn't like that. It was a film. We saw a film together."

Balthazar frowned, "And?"

"And after watching it, I saw that I was missing out on something so much better than what our family had enforced upon us as children. I understood why you ran away, why Anna ran away. And then I did so, too."

Balthazar sipped his coffee – non-fat, non-soy latte – then glanced around, "If you're going to commit to full-scale rebellion, then you have to get over morality. Unlike our family, I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want. But there are certain rites of passage that need to be fulfilled. You need to drink, get smashed, hate the following morning. You have to do something stupid. You have to have casual, adulterated sex. Because in this world, it's okay to screw anyone without a marriage certificate – heck, you don't even need to know their names."

Castiel's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Concern. Curiosity. "I don't... I don't want to have it casually, though. I want it to mean something."

"So you're telling me you can't see one person here you'd like to bang?" he asked incredulously, putting down his coffee. "Bullshit. Turn around. Look at the counter. Would you fuck Jo? She's the little blonde one."

Castiel attempted subtlety, craning his neck to the side in order to see the coffee counter. He spotted Jo, with her round face and soft features, mostly hidden away by boxy black work clothes. She was pretty, Castiel guessed, but realised he was basing his judgement by contrived notions of beauty that he only knew from second-hand accounts of perfume advertisements and actors on the big screen.

It was easy to make a decision. "No." She was pretty, but that was it.

"And the guy?"

Castiel quickly faced Balthazar, his cheeks flushed, "Balthazar!"

"What? You haven't done anything. You need to experiment, work out what you want. And why not screw a guy? There's nothing bad about it in this world."

Castiel glimpsed at the male again. He was broad and muscular, with trimmed ash-blonde hair. The first thing Castiel could think of was _typical dominant male_. He even wore plaid. The tuft in his haircut, the stubble on his chin, the too-tight sleeves hugging his biceps – he looked out of place in Culture World. He _definitely_ ate meat.

He wanted to get a better look at him, though. What colour eyes did he have? Did he have nice teeth? Were his hands calloused?

Then Castiel realised that he shouldn't care. He was just another person. He doubted they would ever talk. He didn't consider himself much of a talker in the first place. "Balthazar, I appreciate your concern, but I doubt I'll be doing anything with anybody. I don't want to. Can we just leave?"

"You haven't had any of your coffee."

Castiel looked at his untouched cup, then brought it to his lips and gulped down the lukewarm beverage. It was bitter, but he didn't mind. He wondered if it was the male that had made his coffee.

"What's his name?"

"The guy? That's Sam's brother. He's not here often. I think his name's Derek or something. Something starting with D."

Castiel nodded, and drained the rest of his drink. Something starting with D. That was unhelpful. Like it even mattered. He didn't expect to come back here anytime soon, even if Balthazar insisted that investing yourself into _culture_ was an absolute must after recently rebelling from an insanely religious family that enforced backwards and outdated beliefs onto everyone while trying to replicate the divine by giving every newborn a name of an angel. It was only now that he truly realised how _disturbing_ his family was. Whatever the case, he didn't want to become a skinny pot smoker who dressed like a hobo.

Balthazar stood up, and Castiel followed him outside. "Hey, Cas, can I give you one piece of advice?"

"What's that?"

"Don't dress like a prude." He sniggered, tugging at Castiel's tie. "You look like a typical tax consultant. Real turn off."

Castiel held his head high, "It's my choice to dress how I choose."

"Yeah, whatever. Stay safe. If you need anything, call me." Balthazar rolled his eyes, and shook his cousin's hand before heading down the street. His car was parked down there. Castiel waved him off and turned, walking in the opposite direction towards the tram line.

While walking, he began to compile a list of To-Dos that were imperative to his new lifestyle in a world free of rules. It was a simple list:

- Buy car.

- Get job.

- Find love.

- Be happy.

Easier said than done.

* * *

**AN:** I have a guilty pleasure for coffee shop AUs and this one has been in my head for a while now. We'll see how it plays out. M for future predictions of plot and lots of super blunt language about sex and drugs.

Hope you guys like it. Not ditching other SPN story, don't worry.


	2. The Little Man with the Red & Yellow Car

Mornings were the inescapable bane of Castiel's existence. If there was one thing not worth thanking God for, it was the struggle to force oneself out of sleep and commit to the ritualistic routine of the morning. The blaring of his alarm discouraged happiness, and he slugged through the act of showering and eating, deadpan and hair left dripping wet. Droplets from the uninviting shower fell into his cereal. He hardly even cared.

Only after his teeth had been adequately brushed did he attend to the wet mop, its tendrils sticking out haphazardly, glistening under the glow of the fluorescent light. He glared at his bathroom mirror, and an 80s glam-rockstar greeted him. Stupid hair. Snatching his comb, he tugged and pulled, searching for a part that had disappeared sometime during the night of restless sleep.

He found the damn part. Now, blessed with impatient aggravation, he combed the majority of his hair to the right and forward, then flicked the teeth; his fringe formed a small quiff. It would do. Anna had told him that his hair looked best when it was styled to be messy, and he had always trusted Anna's judgement. And according to her, it was one's appearance that awarded them a job, friendship and promotions. He gelled his hair, and shuffled into the living room.

It was mostly bare, save a few cheap sofas from IKEA and a TV set he hardly used. Apparently, art was a good way of _personalising_ a home. Maybe he should buy a painting.

Not today, though. Today, he had decided, was the day he would find a car. It was imperative that he had a car to function in the real world. Sliding the house keys into his trouser pocket, he picked up his scrunched overcoat that he had slung over one of the unused sofas last night and pulled it on while exiting his apartment.

While making his way downstairs, his phone buzzed. He snatched it out of his pocket, and answered it, "Hello?"

"Cassie!" Balthazar's voice greeted him cheerfully, and he groaned in response.

"What is it?"

"That's no way to speak to your family," Balthazar scolded teasingly, "I'm sure Michael would be outraged by your crude behaviour."

"I'm sure he's outraged enough to hear that I'm no longer with them," Castiel said, "What is it?" he repeated, "I have plans."

Balthazar snorted, "You? Plans? You don't have friends."

"I'm searching for a suitable car."

"Oh- a car? Look, Cassie, there's this really affordable car yard just off Carlson Road. Owned by a guy named Bobby, from what I remember. Whole bunch of shit-boxes there, but economy wise, I definitely recommend going there."

Castiel sighed, "Thanks, okay. I'll check it out. Can you leave me alone now?" He pushed open the front door of the building with his shoulder, shivering as the sharp bite of winter seeped underneath his layers. With his free hand, he turned up his collar and bustled down the street. Everything was lined with frost. And dead things. Like the skeletons of trees and a small pigeon with its throat ripped out. Probably a cat.

"No, wait. I just wanted to mention one thing. Two weeks, Gabriel's here."

"Gabriel?" Castiel repeated, and his eyebrows lifted. Everyone loved Gabriel, even after he had ran away. Well, ran away was a mild way of putting it.

"Yeah. Said he has a surprise for the both of us. He was ecstatic when I told him you had joined the club of God-Can-Suck-My– "

"That's not –."

"–And he looks forward to seeing you again." Balthazar concluded, unchanged by the interruption. "So I'll see you around later, okay? Take care. And if a hobo asks for money, don't give them any. They just want meth, especially around here. You're no longer a good Samaritan anymore."

"Okay!"

"Later, Cassie!"

The line closed, and Castiel snapped his phone shut, shoving it back into his pocket. He hated phones, but once again, they were a necessity to normal life. For some reason, normality was a lot more complex than he expected. There were rules to abide by and guidelines to follow. In some sense, his old life was easier. His actions were done for him.

Freedom was better. It was better than following the guidelines of outdated philosophies preaching about a movement without any evidence that it even existed. Did God exist? Castiel would like to believe it was true, but what was the use of spending his life caught up in the question when it hardly made a difference in the long run? Thousands of years, man had debated the existence of a higher power. Whether that was God, or an entirely different bloke altogether, it wasn't Castiel's, or anyone's responsibility to find the answer. Preaching his existence wasn't going to solve the question, and living by a set of rules that limited the entire purpose of humanity wouldn't enhance the miracle of life.

Castiel sighed. He didn't know the answer. He wondered if God cared about his creations at all.

He approached the bus shelter and sat down on one of the seats. He placed his hands on his knees, and waited.

\/\/\/\/\/\/

The caryard Balthazar recommended _was_ a dump. Guaranteed shit-boxes, that's for sure. The dirt patch was piled high with ruined cars that had been crushed, crashed, ripped and entirely demolished. Why would anyone buy these?

Castiel glanced around, hands in his pockets, reserved and quiet. Then, a rounded man appeared from one of the piles, a baseball cap worn – maybe to hide his bald spot – sporting faded jeans and a plaid shirt. He was whiskery. Beardy. He reminded Castiel of a typical God-loving Christian from down South. Gabriel told him that these people could be called _rednecks_ but not to their faces and only if you were certain that their ideologies fitted the criteria of _bigoted douchebaggery_, as Gabriel would call it.

"Lookin' for a car?"

Castiel nodded. "Uh. An affordable one," he mumbled. "That works," he added quickly.

"I can assure you, we can get any of these babies runnin' with a bit of tinkering," the man told him. His accent wasn't of a Southerner, fortunately. "I'm Bobby Singer, by the way." Bobby held his hand out, and Castiel shook it nervously. Interaction with strangers was a skill he was yet to master. He hoped his hand wasn't sweaty, and once his hand had left Bobby's he wiped it on his trouser leg.

"Castiel Novak," he replied, delayed.

"Alright, well, _Castiel_," Bobby emphasised his name, "If you follow me, there's a few models that'd suit you fine. Workin' and all. You just want a drive around town, get to work and all that?"

Castiel nodded again, and followed Bobby around the corner that he had come from. He pointed to a dusty car fifty feet away from them, and Castiel squinted as he noticed someone underneath, obviously repairing the thing. "Dean's nearly done with that. Nineteen Eighty-Nine Ford Fiesta, fitted with a new engine. Clean the thing, and it'll look almost brand new."

They approached the car, and Castiel cocked his head to the side, the man underneath sliding out as he did so. He was far too familiar, with the perfect tuft in his dirty blonde hair and the stubble across his chin – _coffee guy_. Castiel almost embarrassed himself, remembering Balthazar had pointed him out suggesting sexual encounters with him.

"Hey," _Dean_ smiled, and shook Castiel's hand. "You looking to buy this?"

Castiel merely nodded again. He was doing far too much nodding. He cleared his throat, "I need a car." He said lamely.

So this was a _Dean_ and not a _Derek_. Dean suited him better, Castiel thought. But what was he doing in a caryard? He worked in a coffee shop! Balthazar did mention that he wasn't always at the cafe, however. Maybe the coffee shop was part time for a bit of extra cash. It made sense, considering the place was writhing with culture-crazed hipsters and the like.

"Great. I just finished installing the new engine, so after a good clean she's ready to be sold. Willing?"

"Uh. What are my prices?" Castiel asked, and he thought he sounded like he was reading from a script.

"I'll go into the office and run them off. We can work out something from there, if the numbers are in your range," Bobby said, and he turned, leaving both Dean and Castiel alone. Castiel tongued the inside of his mouth, avoiding eye contact with the man in front of him. He wished Bobby was faster.

"Were you at Yellow Door yesterday?" Dean asked, conversational.

The coffee shop. Dean recognised him. Think fast. "Yes." Damn.

Dean frowned, "With uh, what's his name, Balthazar, or something? Something weird."

"He's my cousin," Castiel stated.

It seemed that Dean was waiting for more information, but Castiel's shoulders sunk down with nervousness. Talking to strangers was hard.

"You and your cousin don't seem very similar, then," Dean said, "Not being disrespectful, of course. But you don't look like the type who comes into places like that."

"I don't," Castiel mumbled, "but he recommended it."

"Why? You new here?"

"Yes." Castiel cursed himself silently again, wishing he knew how to elaborate. Why is it that when he wanted to have a decent conversation with someone, he never knew what to say?

Both were silent for a few moments, the awkwardness penetrating the both of them. Dean tried again, "Well, my name's Dean Winchester. Welcome to this poor excuse of a city. And you are?"

"Castiel Novak," Castiel said, and for some reason it was the most confident thing he had said to him.

Dean's eyes crinkled as he smiled, "Can I call you Cas? Syllables, man."

Castiel returned the smile, realising no one had actually ever addressed him as _Cas_ before. He liked it. "Of course."

"Awesome. Look, I work at Yellow Door Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. I know this place like the back of my hand, so if you need help getting around, then it's cool if you ask."

Castiel nodded.

"You do that thing with your head a lot."

"Nodding."

"Yeah, that."

"Habit," he replied, and shoved his hands into his overcoat, staring down at the ground.

Behind him, he heard the crunch of gravel. Bobby was back. Finally.

Out of sheer embarrassment and discouraged from any further socialising with the real world, he invested his concentration into the prices without so much of a peek at Dean. He hoped Dean didn't feel offended. But Castiel figured if he looked, he'd keep trying to catch another glance at those impeccably green eyes.

He bought the car. He didn't even _like _it.

It occurred to Castiel that tomorrow was Thursday. Dean would be at the coffee shop tomorrow. Surely there had to be a reason to visit beyond social interaction. That was already a failed experiment.

He wondered how long he would last in the real world.

* * *

**AN:** I haven't edited this at all and the second half is sorta shit because I'm recovering from an operation so I've been pretty high off drugs for the last few days.

Why the slow update? Assessment week and operation. I'm free now, though. Expect more updates.

Thanks for the lovely reviews and follows, means a lot. Hope this chapter is satisfactory enough. Bear with me.


	3. TMI, FYI

Human life was less so of spiritual enlightenment, but more so a long line of regretting. Opportunities were wasted. Castiel wondered if everyone felt like this: trapped in an unlocked cage. There was nothing stopping him from simply standing up and leaving, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. For some reason, everyone else's opinions mattered a lot more than his.

He didn't go to the coffee shop. Wouldn't it be weird? He would be going purely for the sake of Dean, and he had nothing to say. He didn't exactly know why he wanted to see the stranger again, but he had been the nicest stranger. He was friendly and didn't give up on a conversation. And he looked genuine; he wore clothes that didn't associate him with a supposedly cultured archetype and spoke with a casual tone that asked for friendship as opposed to pretentious dickheadedness.

Castiel stared at the black TV screen, considering whether he should turn it on. He had little interest in television, but it passed the time. His hands cupped his knees. He thought about his cousin, Gabriel, confused as to why Gabriel would be coming to this city, of all places. Last he heard, Gabriel had been somewhere in the heart of the Balkans, doing God knows what. Gabriel told him that he loved Europe because it meant that he didn't have to stand on the same ground that his family stood on. Castiel was hurt by this statement, but he knew what he meant. Michael, Zachariah, Raphael, Uriel... They were firm believers of Christ, but firm was putting it mildly. Gabriel used to be just like them, a long time ago. Then, out of the blue, he was sick of the preaching and the hatred, and he left. Castiel couldn't have been older than twelve, then. Gabriel was nineteen.

And here Castiel was now, twenty-seven and another sinful child that could never be forgiven. His family hated him, he suspected.

He glanced around his apartment. The tangerine feature wall featured its own colour and a lonely hook in need of a painting. What do normal people put in houses? Maybe he should buy himself a bookshelf. People had books. The only thing he had ever read was the Bible.

It was something to do, at least.

\/\/\/\/\/

"What are you interested in, then?"

"That's what I've been trying to work out," Castiel answered the girl, eyes fixed on the rows of books in front of him. Most had little Penguins on them.

The girl bit on her lip, "How about I pick out a few good titles for you," she suggested, and picked up a few small orange books. She gave the books to him, and he glanced at the covers: _The Great Gatsby_; _The Hound of the Baskervilles; Catch-22; Nineteen Eighty Four; Slaughterhouse 5; _and _Of Mice and Men_.

"They're all pretty different. I think everyone should read those titles, at least."

"I'll take them," he said, giving her a small, half-hearted attempt at a smile.

She returned the smile and took him to the counter, and scanned the books. He paid her with his credit card, still unused to the machine demanding a sacred code. The girl placed them in a canvas bag, and he thanked her, leaving the small bookshop.

Returning home, he placed the small pile of paperbacks on the glass coffee table. He sat down and picked up an IKEA catalogue. He didn't particularly like the Swedish franchise, but it was cheap and he was lacking a solid income. He was living on credit cards and loans, mostly. If he had more money, he would be looking in antique stores. He liked the old mahogany of the chipped dining tables and the coloured glass on lightshades of flowers. Instead, he had to make do with the faux wood on square objects that were minimalist, plain.

Flicking to the appropriate section, he flipped through the various bookshelves pictured in the freakishly perfect rooms. Excluding his bare apartment, he didn't know anyone who had a house quite as aesthetically pleasing as the displays in the IKEA catalogues. Then again, he didn't know many people.

The bookshelf he had his eyes on was a simple thing: a tall box with shelves, was what it could be described as. It would adequately serve its purpose as a bookshelf, Castiel guessed. It was very minimalist. He put down the catalogue, leaving it open on the page with the bookshelf, and searched for a pen. He found one on the kitchen counter next to a notebook. The page open had a to-do list scribbled into it. Picking up the pen, he ticked _buy car_ and walked back to the couch and picked up the catalogue, circling the bookshelf and its price. It was cheap, comparatively.

Sighing, he glanced at his books and picked up the paperback on the top of the pile: _Of Mice and Men_. His eyes scanned over the blurb. Something about two migrant ranch workers, and one was very simple. Castiel opened the book and began reading, settling into the couch.

The fake leather was uncomfortable.

\/\/\/\/\/

He had spent far too long worrying about looks. Appearance was everything, he had been repeatedly told, but he wasn't exactly knowledgeable when it came to fashion. Castiel only had so many off-the-rack suits, and the one trench coat. He shouldn't even be fretting.

He figured he just didn't want to look like an idiot in front of a potential friend. The only friends he did have were rebelled cousins. So he had three friends. Maybe he could add a fourth, if he wasn't socially inept.

Finally, he worked up the courage to leave the apartment. Initially, his buttons had been done up but the collar itched on his skin and he undid them, looking exactly as he always did.

Arriving at the coffee shop, his palms were sweaty. He just wanted a friend. Do normal people react like this in social situations? Trying to ignore the perspiration, he pushed the front door and chimes clanged against one another.

He felt out of place. Everyone wore cardigans and skinny jeans, and men's Calvin Klein underwear popped out of the back of their pants and women's jewellery rattled loudly. The funny thing was, Castiel noticed, was that no one cared about him. He had spent so long fussing, contemplating whether or not he should visit the coffee shop, knowing he had neither the knowledge of culture or the clothes to visit, when in reality no one actually cared about his existence. Everyone there was a background.

Castiel approached the counter, and he glanced furtively to the whirring coffee machine, trying to see who was behind it. He saw the blonde, but then he let out a sigh of relief, seeing the familiar face. Only moments later, his heart sped up at the prospect of further social interaction.

Dean noticed Castiel, and his pouted face transformed into a smile. He walked over to the counter, "Thought I might see you today. How you going, Cas, right?"

Castiel nodded, flattered that Dean had remembered his name, "I have just realised that I should stop worrying about other people's opinions on me, because the likelihood is that they have none that matter."

Dean blinked, confused for a second, and Castiel felt his cheeks burn. He wasn't good at talking.

"Where did you say you came from, before you moved here?" Dean asked.

"I travelled with my family. We travelled through the country on missions, spreading the word of God." Castiel explained, silently applauding himself for his brave attempts at conversation sustaining, "But recently, I had a change of heart and ran away, so I'm hoping I can fit in with normal life now."

Dean's eyes were remarkably green. For someone who appeared quite masculine, he had very long eyelashes. When he blinked, they brushed together.

"Shit, that's deep," Dean finally said, "and you're all by yourself?"

"I have my cousin Balthazar. He tells me things I should know about normal life."

"Normal life?" Dean questioned, "You know what? No use talking across the counter like this. You actually want to buy any of the crap they sell here, or you wanna chat?"

"Uh, I would feel guilty for abusing the use of a shop for my own purposes, so I feel it's my duty to buy something."

Dean looked at him strangely, and he felt discouraged. Maybe there was more than simply talking to sustain a good conversation. "May I have a long black?"

"Sure, man," Dean said, and Castiel gave him the change, hoping he hadn't make the coins sweaty. Dean went to the coffee machine, and Castiel watched, wondering how turning knobs made coffee. He never really understood coffee.

Dean walked out from behind the counter and handed Castiel the paper cup, "Come on, let's sit at a table," he looked to the other girl behind the counter, "Jo, can you take over for ten minutes?"

The blonde rolled her eyes, "Sure."

Castiel followed Dean to a spare table situated to the back of the coffee shop. It was in the corner, a lot quieter from the rest of the cafe. Castiel sat down opposite Dean nervously, placing the cup on the tabletop.

Suddenly, he found himself in a locked stare with Dean. Dean was scrutinising him, his eyebrows furrowed, and Castiel was doing the same, taking in the closeness he hadn't had before. His lips were full, with a deep philtrum. If you looked hard enough at his eyes, you could see small yellow flecks in the irises.

He wondered what Dean saw.

"So," Dean finally said, breaking the stare. "Are you a religious kook? Or you hate the stuff? Because what with you talking about _normal life_ like you grew up in an entirely different universe, I've got the impression your folks are some real God-lovin' fanatics."

Castiel looked at his knees, "Your impression isn't wrong."

"Want to elaborate?"

Castiel nodded, and looked Dean steadily in the eye, "Our family is large. Very large. And extremely religious. There are very few people in my family that don't have a name that isn't a derivative of an angelic name. I have been told my name is from _Cassiel._"

"I'm assuming that's only the least of it?"

"From a young age, everyone is taught about God, about Jesus Christ, the Bible. And we're taught to follow the Bible. We're nothing but servants of God. If we sin, we are punished severely," Castiel inhaled, nervous. "Once, when I was six, I asked if I could play in the park with the normal kids. I was... I was yelled at. I was told that those kids were filthy and dirty, and their parents had allowed them to be contaminated by the influences of TV and music and... We didn't have any of that."

Dean looked shocked, and Castiel wondered why. "Dude, that's fucked up. I'm just saying. You couldn't listen to music?"

"I was unaware music even existed beyond the Church hymns we sang."

"That's fucked up." Dean repeated, shaking his head, "Seriously, that's wrong. To think parents would let their kids grow up like that."

Castiel shrugged, "I don't know who my parents are."

"What, they ran off and left you?"

"My father had rebelled, impregnated a whore, then had me sent to my family," Castiel explained flatly.

"Your father's an asshole. Looks like you came from a long line of them. Shit, man. So this really is 'normal life' for you, then?"

Castiel nodded slowly. Dean looked upset, sympathetic.

"Do you have any friends?"

Castiel swallowed dryly, "Well, my three cousins who rebelled before me. And I'd like to think you as my friend. If that's okay with you."

"Dude, of course it's fine." Dean said, "I mean, first off, I'll get you into good music, not the shit they play in here. Good old-fashioned rock, nothing better than."

Castiel smiled, "Thank you." And he was thankful. Dean would be the first friend he ever had that wasn't family. He never had that.

"Hey, look, there's this party tomorrow night. This place hosts a few parties, so we have one every couple of weeks on the weekend. You should come. It'd be good for you. Have a few drinks, make some friends, get laid, whatever."

Castiel's smile disappeared, "Laid?"

"You know, sex. Haven't heard that term before?"

"I don't..." Castiel stuttered, "Wouldn't want..."

Dean gave him an incredulous look, "Don't tell me you haven't had sex before. Don't tell me your family took that away from you, too."

At this, Castiel rubbed the back of his neck nervously, his eyes darting away from Dean. Maybe if he didn't answer, Dean wouldn't know the answer.

"Holy shit, you're a virgin."

Damn. Castiel reluctantly nodded, "I never had the opportunity, okay?"

"You need to get laid. Seriously, tomorrow night. Come along. Be here around seven, and I'll meet up with you. I'll show you how to have a good time. It'll be fine."

"But..." Castiel bit on his lip, "I don't know how to talk to people."

"You seem to be holding up so far," Dean said.

"And it's very difficult," Castiel mumbled.

Dean shrugged, "Well, it gets easier. You've had a rough life. I promise you, tomorrow night will be fine. Wear something casual. A pair of jeans and a shirt will do."

Castiel nodded, "I'll be there."

"Great. Now, I should be getting back to work. I need the money. You'll have a good time, I assure you. Hey, here..." Dean snatched Castiel's hand, and pulled a pen out of his pocket, scribbling digits onto the back of his hand. "There's my number."

"Thanks." Castiel looked at his hand, and the corners of his lips twitched into a smile. Friend.

Dean stood up, "I'll see you tomorrow, seven, okay?"

Castiel nodded again.

With that, Dean left him, returning to the counter, and Castiel couldn't help but feel content. He realised he hadn't touched his coffee, and took a sip from the paper cup. He didn't like coffee, not really. He picked up his cup and stood up, deciding it best to leave. Dean waved at him as he passed by, and Castiel, flustered, managed a pathetic attempt of a wave, more like a spasm in his hand. Socially inept, he was.

He had never been to a party before. He had no idea what sort of parties people held. Maybe he could ask Balthazar for advice.

* * *

**AN:** Wow, long dialogue scene. Finally, a decent chapter. However, I have not edited this in any way whatsoever. Hopefully, there aren't any grammatical errors. I'll read over it tomorrow. Eh. It's fanfiction, man.

Now, the plot begins. Okay. Thanks for the follows and such, means a lot (:


	4. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

Castiel never would have thought he would ask Balthazar for legitimate advice. Apparently, such a time was needed.

"I don't know what to wear," Castiel explained lamely over the phone.

"It's a party. Wear a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, I don't know."

"I don't know what a party entails!" he squeaked. "Like a birthday party? A congratulatory party? Do parties have themes? I don't know!"

Balthazar sighed, "Cassie, calm down," he said from across the line. "The type of parties the place hosts are like house parties. They're done for fun. People just go there to meet up and get drunk, and have a good time."

"_Drunk?!_"

"Yes, Cassie, drunk!" Balthazar groaned. "It's a thing. It's a normal thing people do. People go to parties with the intention of getting smashed."

"People _do_ that?"

"Sure they do. That's called a good time. And also makes having sex a lot easier. Well, socially. Depends. Sometimes, if you have too much alcohol, you can't get it–"

"Okay!" Castiel interjected quickly. "I don't care about that. All I want to know is what I should wear. I don't have much in the way of clothes."

"I know. You were the same shitty coat every day. Look, go down to Oakley Street, down near the City Square. There's plenty of clothing stores there. Go into Westfields or something. Find something decent. Plain shirts and jeans are completely fine."

"Okay," Castiel mumbled, "I can do that. Thanks."

Balthazar huffed, "Right. Also, if you do get drunk – which I highly doubt – then make sure you call a cab."

"I won't get drunk," Castiel said, and said goodbye to his cousin. He hung up, and sighed.

\/\/\/\/\/

People who worked in stores were nice, Castiel had quickly noticed. He also guessed they were paid to be nice. Paid or not, she did her job well.

He explained he didn't have any clothes casual enough for a party, unsure whether he was using the word _party_ in the correct context considering he still didn't quite understand what exactly he was going to. She understood though, and laughed at him kindly, then led him to the male half of the store.

She asked if he was comfortable in tight jeans. After trying on a pair, he definitely _wasn't_. Skinnies could be condemned to hell, for all he cared. Instead, he found comfort in the most average pair of jeans – simple and straight. He bought two pairs.

Belts were exciting. With belts, came belt buckles. With belt buckles, came giant monstrosities in different shapes and sizes with animals, places, practically _anything _you could think of. The girl helping him – her name was Paige – advised that he should avoid belt buckles because she said the majority of them were hideous. He almost accepted defeat, until he couldn't keep his eyes off a giant bull's head. He bought that with no regrets, along with a few leather belts.

The problems arose when he asked about shirts. There were so many possibilities! She insisted that he needed semi-casual, recommending various brands that he immediately forgot the names of once she had listed them. And soon, he was stuck inside the changing room for at least an hour, being given a vast array of button-ups, t-shirts, and v-necks all with various patterns and colours, and Castiel had absolutely no idea how good any of them looked on him or what could really be regarded as fashionable. He asked her helplessly, and she giggled at him.

"Well, my boyfriend wears stuff like this," she gestured to the pile of button-ups that all had a faded, vintage look about them. "But I think you look nice in the more plain ones. So get some neutral colours, like black and grey, and also get a few blue shirts, and even this red one looked good on you," she shoved the clothes in his hands as she spoke. "But you should definitely have more casual stuff, like these. Although," she held up a grey shirt, with the letters ACDC written on it, "if you want to wear stuff like this, you'll be a prat if you don't know the band. But you know ACDC, right?"

"No?" he blinked. "Band?"

"Oh, wow." She laughed, and gave him the shirt anyway. "Take it, though. Youtube them tonight. Do you think you have enough?"

He nodded, staring at the pile draped over his arms, "I think so."

"Great," she smiled, and took him to the counter. He paid for the shirts, and thanked her, finally leaving with his bags. He dragged them to the carpark, and dumped them in the small boot of his shit-box, already considering what he should wear to the party.

The drive home was unexciting and boring, as driving usually was. He stared at red traffic lights and waited for teenagers to dawdle across roads, their noses buried in their mobiles. The car's ventilation system was poor, and Castiel had rolled down the window so as to not feel like he was suffocating.

When he arrived home, he was tired and exhausted, despite the fact it was only three. He parked, and brought up the shopping bags to his flat, dumping them on his bed. At least they would fill up his wardrobe.

He unpacked the clothes from the various bags, and laid them across his bed. He still didn't know what to wear to the party. Instead, he took off all the tags and hung them up. He had a few hours, yet.

\/\/\/\/\/

Castiel took the subway. He hated his car, mostly.

What he didn't expect was the loud music belting from the inside of the shop, or the huge mass of people inside. He gulped and stepped inside, only to be deafened by the distorted sounds of a guitar blaring in his eardrums.

The place hardly looked like a coffee shop anymore. Everything had been cleared away and replaced with couches and a few tables on the side of the wall. He saw a girl giggling, lying across one of the sofas with her shirt up to her breast. Beside her were two males and another girl. One of the males leaned down to her stomach, and with a short straw, he sniffed something up. Castiel stared, confused.

Quickly, he shuffled through the crowd, scanning the room for any sight of Dean. People clutched onto bottles of alcohol and danced clumsily to the music.

_I don't love my family.  
I think they're boring,  
And when we get together  
I'm so scared of talking to them  
About anything._

Weirdly, the tempo seemed too upbeat for the nature of the song, then the chorus sounded and Castiel tried to block out the singing. He spotted an unoccupied chair near the far end of the room, and began heading towards it when he felt a hand cup his shoulder.

He spun around, only to see Dean grinning at him, "You made it!"

Castiel nodded numbly, and Dean shoved a beer in his hands. "Thanks," he mumbled.

"Nice shirt, man," Dean said, and Castiel looked down, almost forgetting. He decided on the ACDC shirt, despite not knowing the band. He figured he would get around to it sooner or later. It was the most casual thing he had bought.

"Thanks," he said again, feeling stupid.

"Hey, look, I want you to meet my little brother. He's just over there..." Dean walked off, and Castiel quickly followed, halting when Dean did. Suddenly, he found himself staring up at a giant of a person with a huge forehead and messy, uncut hair.

"Sammy, this is Cas. Cas, this is my brother, Sam."

"Nice to meet you," Sam said over the music, shaking Castiel's hand firmly. He smiled, "Dean said you just moved here."

Castiel nodded, not knowing what to reply with. Instead, he said, "You don't look like a little brother."

Sam chuckled, and Dean pouted, his chest thrusting out in a typical machismo manner, "He's a tall son of a bitch. Goddamn gigantor, he is."

"Get over it already, Dean," Sam laughed.

"At least I have the good looks," Dean said, and drank from his own beer. "Now piss off and have a good time elsewhere. Done with you, now. We've had our introductions."

"Jerk. See you around, Cas." Sam elbowed Dean playfully, and disappeared into the crowd.

"Bitch!" Dean yelled back, and grinned at Cas. "Have a drink, man. Loosen up. You look stressed as hell."

Castiel glanced down at his unopened beer. "I've never had beer before."

"Christ, you're missing out." Dean snatched the bottle and popped off the lid, then handed it back to Cas. "Drink up. Makes the world a better place, once you've had enough. I'd recommend you stay clear of the brownies."

"Why brownies?" Castiel asked, confused.

Dean snickered, "Mostly because they're all laced with something. I mean, half the people here are pretty high."

"High?"

Dean just laughed, "Drink up."

Castiel glanced at the beverage and shrugged. He wanted to fit in, then give in to peer pressure was what he would do. He gulped down the liquid, and was met with the sudden feeling of wanting to cough. He pulled the bottle away, and spluttered, his throat burning. "This is disgusting," he said truthfully.

"Acquired taste, buddy. Have a couple drinks. Now, if you would excuse me, but there is this blonde that I've got to get back to," Dean winked, and just like Sam, had magically disappeared into the crowd of jumping bodies.

Castiel froze, terrified. What was he supposed to do? Interact with other people? The idea was ridiculous. Out of nerves, he drained the remainder of his beer. He realised that was a bad idea, as his brain suddenly began spinning and he gulped, stumbling to the closest wall where a chair was situated. He sat down, and closed his eyes, trying to block out the pumping lyrics.

"_I've got to find respect before I die_

_And if you shut your mouth and sit this out_

_Then everything will work itself out fine..._

_These are such ordinary times,_

_We lead such ordinary lives."_

He wondered if anyone ever paid attention to the words. While everyone swayed and held their arms up in their air, he couldn't understand why anyone would want to dance to something so sad. Apparently, every song they played had a certain nihilistic attitude.

Castiel groaned, feeling sick. It was probably the beer.

"Are you okay?"

Castiel opened his eyes, and he was greeted with the pixie-like face of a youth, her pupils dilated and her dyed, choppy hair sweaty. The red lipstick on her lips had faded, and the colour was left only in the cracks of her moist lips. He thought it was ironic that it was she asking if he was okay, since she didn't look a hundred percent herself.

"Uh, dizzy," he said, rubbing his right eye with the back of his hand.

"Me too," she said, and then sat on his lap. She smiled crookedly, and hiccupped. "Wow shit, your eyes are so..." she trailed off, staring intently at his eyes. "_Blue_," she finally finished.

Castiel frowned, "Thanks? I don't..." he didn't know what to say, and his cheeks burned.

She giggled, and ran a hand through her glistening hair. It stuck up at odd angles, and Castiel noticed the piercing on her eyebrow, and the clutter of studs and rings in her ears. He counted twelve piercings on each ear, which he found impressive.

"I'm really tired," she mumbled, and then her hands were holding onto the side of his shirt, and she placed her head gently on his neck. He felt her breathing gently onto her skin.

"Uh," he said. Her face was sticky, and the layer of foundation was rubbing onto his shirt. "Excuse me."

Obviously, his words had no effect. She already was falling asleep – how do you fall asleep when there is music literally breaking your ear drums? – and apparently Castiel's shoulder was the most comfortable thing in the world. Carefully, he put his hands around her waist, and lifted her up. She groaned, but didn't retaliate. Trying to keep her as steady as possible, he stood up, switching his place with hers so she was sitting on the chair. Then he stood up quickly, and brushed his front.

He didn't feel like he was participating. Sighing, he edged towards the back of the room, finding the back door. Maybe after a breather, he'd get into it. Castiel pushed open the door and dawdled into the empty courtyard which consisted only of a fence covered in ivy, a wooden bench that looked like it had been attacked by termites at one point, and two plastic chairs – one of which, had a broken back.

He sat down on the unbroken chair, and stared at the ivy for a few minutes. A snail or two had nibbled on the weed at some point.

Castiel didn't think he would be trying beer again.

"Cas?"

Castiel turned around, seeing Dean walk out from the door. He frowned.

"Thought I saw you walk out here. Doin' alright?"

"The music was a bit loud in there," Castiel explained, watching Dean sit down on the edge of the broken chair. Like the girl who had fallen asleep on his shoulder, his eyes were equally as diluted, and without the sweaty odours inside mixed with God knows what else, Castiel thought he smelt like... Well, Castiel didn't know what it was. It wasn't tobacco, but it had a smoky aroma.

Dean blinked a few times, staring at Castiel with a dazed look on his face, "Sorry. Walking, man. It's crazy shit."

"Are you okay...?" Castiel asked. He looked sick.

"Never felt better," Dean's head snapped up, and he grinned at Castiel, flashing his pearly whites. He scraped the chair along the ground, edging it closer to Castiel so he was sitting directly in front of him. "Shit, I think you've got wings."

"What?"

"Like, angel wings. Wait– no, you don't. Now you do again. I dunno. I keep seeing stuff then it goes away again."

Castiel had absolutely no idea what Dean was on about. "Are you hallucinating? Maybe you should see a doctor."

"Fuck no, man. Then I'll get done by the cops."

Castiel shrugged, and looked down, breaking the stare. Did parties have this effect on everyone? Then, he vaguely recollected Dean warning him not to eat brownies, for some strange reason. Because apparently brownies made you _high_. He didn't know what _high_ meant, but maybe Dean was exactly that, as was the other girl.

"Are you high?" Castiel asked.

"High as the clouds," Dean answered dreamily and he inched forward on his chair, his face nearing Castiel's. Castiel's brow furrowed and he tongued the inside of his cheeks nervously. Dean cracked another grin, snickering. "Whatcha worried for?"

"I... don't know."

"Great," Dean said, then suddenly he leaned up and pressed his lips against Castiel's. Castiel's heart thumped and he pulled away in retaliation, the taste of bitter beer on his lips. He stared at Dean, dumbfounded and wide-eyed. Did Dean just do that? Did he _really_ do that?

Dean just smiled, and kissed him again. And Castiel let him. He didn't know why. He was only becoming acutely aware that he was in fact being kissed by a _male_ whom of which he had only met _three_ days ago. Normal life was a lot more surreal than he had anticipated.

Soon, Dean wasn't just holding his mouth against Castiel's. Dean spread his apart and sucked gently on Castiel's lower lip. Then, Dean nudged Castiel's mouth open and his tongue slipped in, rolling over his. Dean's hands cupped his jaw, allowing his lips to slide over Castiel's while his tongue delved further into his mouth.

It wasn't long before Castiel came to his senses, wrenching his eyes open and pushing Dean away. "Stop. I don't..."

"Don't what?" Dean questioned.

"I don't know. I don't know you very well. We just met. And then you're... I haven't ever– and you're a guy! If my family found–"

"Fuck your family!" Dean snapped. "You haven't been with anyone before? Then get it the fuck over and done with! Go inside and fuck anyone, not that fucking hard."

"I don't want..."

"What _do _you want?"

"I don't know!" Castiel groaned. "I just thought it would be... more... romantic," he blushed.

"You're not going to find romance. You've killed my buzz, great. Fuck. What was I thinking?" Dean spat and stood up, suddenly angry. "You don't know anything about me? Let's see: besides my brother, my entire family is dead. I dropped out of school. I lost my virginity when I was fifteen. And my favourite colour's red. Anything else you want to know?"

Castiel looked down. "I'm sorry."

Dean bit on his lip, the anger lifting from his face. He stared at Castiel for a while. "Me too."

He leaned down and gently kissed Castiel's forehead. "Call it normal life, but everyone's a little bit fucked up." Without another word he walked back inside, leaving Castiel completely alone. The music could still be heard from outdoors.

"_Then when you turned away;__  
__When you slammed the door__  
__When you stole the car__  
__And drove towards Mexico__  
__And you wrote bad checks__  
__Just to fill your arm.__  
__I was young enough, I still believed in war."_

* * *

**AN: **Oh Jesus, this took a while to finish. Reasons? Three parties of my own in a row, then Christmas festivities to attend to and organise. Anyway, glad this is done. Finished on Christmas Eve, ain't that nice. Okay. I'm super excited for Christmas. Enjoy this, and reviews would be lovely. Hopefully I'm taking this in the right direction._  
_

The songs in the chapter are 'Sad Rude Future Dude' by Ball Park Music; 'The New Neil Young' by The Grand Philadelphia Dury; and 'Poison Oak' by Bright Eyes, respectively. I implore you to listen to all three bands.


	5. We Live in a Stupid Age

"Dear God."

It was like writing a cheesy letter and posting it to yourself.

"I know I haven't spoken to you in a while. I know we haven't talked much since I left. Well, we haven't at all. I don't think that was the right thing to do. Then again, I don't know what's right at all. Everything's confusing, and I'm constantly doubting everything I do, thinking... I don't know. I ask myself, is leaving everything behind the right choice? Is trying to fit in a good thing? I haven't found any answers.

"I don't even know why I left anymore. This place, this world without God, is so lonely. It's hurtful. People do things and I don't understand why they do them. Nothing is straight forward. The rules aren't written in stone."

His palms sweated together. He licked his dry lips.

"I'm sorry. I think you hate me, now. For thinking it was alright to abandon you, abandon everything I believed in. I don't understand why I did it. I don't make sense. I'm okay with sinning. I'm okay with doing things I know I shouldn't."

He remembered the bitter taste of Dean's lips on his, and despite how morally wrong it was he was only desperate for more of the kiss.

"Maybe this all part of your plan. Whatever it is. I don't know. Do you want me to screw everything up?" Shift the blame onto someone else, makes the guilt go away. "Please, I can't take this for much longer. I can't handle the pressure and the talking and the temptations and lust and _please_, help me. I need help.

"I don't want to be who I am. I don't want everyone to think of me as some stupid, awkward _dork_ with no friends. I want to be liked. Please, I'm _begging_ you."

And then the tears come. Because people are like that: unpredictable and overly emotional. Other people's opinions matter and you're never good enough. There's always something wrong.

"No, stop, I hate crying..." he sniffed. "I look stupid when I cry."

Everyone looks stupid when they cry. He blinked, trying to push the tears back into his skull. They dripped down his red cheeks, and his jaw trembled, curling lips wet.

"Why do I have to be in this stupid place? Why do I have this dumb face and cheap furniture, and no friends except some stupid guy who I think I like, and I can't really like him because I'm not a girl, and I'm stuck in this stupid body.

"I'm sorry. I just..."

Crying had a way of taking over your entire body. You couldn't speak, your head ached and the tears blurred everything. He pulled his hands away, and climbed onto his bed. He didn't even bother changing.

He thought praying might help, but instead he only felt embarrassment. What an idiot.

\/\/\/\/\/

The next morning, Castiel visited the local internet cafe. It was small and crowded, and whatever they were serving didn't look very appeasing. Castiel shuffled past the rows of computers, outdated ten years ago and sat down on the end of the back row, away from everyone else. He inserted a few quarters into the slot, and the machine started up.

He hadn't actually used a computer before. His family said computers were a bad influence. He mostly agreed, aware that the internet caused addictions. It was obvious, watching a large majority of people with their noses buried into their smart phones and tablets and laptops wherever he went.

Mostly guessing, he double clicked on the blue _e_ icon, assuming it to be the internet judging by the caption underneath: _internet explorer_. Fair enough. It took ten seconds to load, and finally opened up to a page with the colourful word _google_ plastered over it.

The white bar probably was where you typed your query. His fingers clacked on the keyboard loudly. God, he felt so stupid.

_How to socialise_

The first link was helpful enough. Apparently it could be done in 13 steps. Then he saw the first step, and immediately pressed back. Be yourself? That hasn't worked so far.

After a few more minutes of idle reading, all he had learnt was that meeting people could be done by joining greasy gym clubs and old lady knitting groups. However, an article also told him that drinking and doing drugs prevents friends, which didn't seem to be the case last night at the party. He was the only person not drinking and not high.

He gave up, and instead, typed up _YouTube_ into the search bar. Then, he searched ACDC. He plugged in the headphone jack into the computer, and put them over his ears, then played the first video.

It was pixelated and made in the nineties. The band members had long hair and laughingly, added with the electric guitars and heavy rock beat, were bagpipes. Castiel clicked on another video – this one had lyrics. He didn't quite understand what was so appealing about being on the highway to hell.

Then he didn't know what to do. He had little interest on the internet. Mostly unsatisfied, he exited from the browser and shut down the computer, feeling robbed of his money.

Castiel decided to go grocery shopping.

The supermarket was a vast enterprise of product marketing and unorthodox goods. Really, he couldn't care less whether his milk was skim, soy, full cream, or crammed with useless vitamins. The cheapest option would do him just fine.

Improvising a shopping list was difficult as he couldn't really cook. The best he could do was fried egg and bacon, and even that wasn't fantastic. Down each isle, he threw in whatever looked good: pasta, herbs, noodles, bread, crackers and dairy. He even ventured down the confectionary isle, throwing in a few bags of crisps that he would never eat, and soda that would be left untouched. In the butchery section, he took a processed chicken and packaged steak. The animals were probably slaughtered in a crowded warehouse. He did his best not to care.

The grocery bill fell into the hundreds and he paid with credit – naturally. He wondered how he was going to pay the bank once they started demanding their money back. He still didn't have a job. Maybe he should start searching for one. Something with little qualifications, but still had a level of class.

He drove back home, and dragged the many plastic bags into his apartment, dumping them on the kitchen counter. What do people do with all this junk? He pulled out a bowl from the cupboard, placing the few apples and oranges he had bought into it. They fit snugly.

Everything else either went in the pantry or fridge, but he had a feeling he wouldn't be touching most of it any time soon. Chances were that cooking was a culinary skill he could never master and takeaway would suffice.

Finally, after packing everything away, he sat down on his sofa. He continued reading _Of Mice and Men_. Poor Lenny. He was just misunderstood. If only people could realise that his heart was made of gold, and he wasn't just the dumb buffoon people saw on the outside.

\/\/\/\/\/

Calling Dean was probably the right thing to do, but Castiel refused to do anything such. What would he say? Did Dean even remember what he did?

He planned to do nothing about it. Fat chance.

Instead, he did a stupid thing and went straight up to the goddamn coffee shop. He didn't have a clue why. Some unknown force.

The place looked clean. There never had been a party there. There were no giggling blondes with men snorting coke from their stomachs and there were no drunks swaying to the upbeat tunes of how upsetting life could be.

He dug his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, then approached the counter.

It was a Monday.

Dean doesn't work Mondays.

He stared at the chalky menus on the wall, frozen momentarily as he considered his options. He had to buy something. He couldn't just walk away from the counter. That would look weird.

"Hey, Cas!"

His eyes focused and he was met with the giant moosie. Sam. Dean's brother. Did Sam know anything about what Dean did?

"Oh, uh, hello. Dean isn't here."

"No, doesn't work Mondays."

Stupid, _stupid_. Castiel knew that. He tongued his lips.

"He'd be around Bobby's, if you're looking for him," Sam continued. "Do you have his number?"

Castiel nodded, feeling idiotic. "Sorry. I'll just... go, uh."

"So soon?"

"I don't want to bother you..."

Sam laughed, "The very opposite. You have no idea how boring working is. I'd rather go to college every day."

"College?"

"Yeah, I'm finishing my pre-law this year. Finals are in a few months."

Castiel shrugged, "I don't know what pre-law is."

Sam smiled, not unfriendly. He didn't laugh at Castiel for being so sheltered from the world. Castiel decided he liked Sam. Maybe Sam would be okay knowing Dean kissed him.

"Sam, can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

Castiel bit on his lip, nervous. "Well, on Saturday night... Dean was with me, outside in the courtyard. And I don't think he was _normal_, you know, and he, well, kissed me."

Sam frowned. "Did he?"

Sam didn't approve. Oh dear. Abort. Cas gulped. "I thought you should know. Sorry. Forget it."

"No, it's not– Dean's the straightest person I know. He's never even been curious. I'm surprised, is all. And I suppose a bit annoyed, since he's never had any respect for anyone else."

"I don't think he meant any disrespect."

"Of course not. But he still does things. Are you okay with it? I mean, only because it could have been confronting. Please don't tell me that was your first kiss, otherwise I feel deeply sorry for you. Plenty of his exes have complained he slobbers."

Castiel blushed, "Well..."

Sam's eyes widened, "_Shit_, he was! I'm so sorry, on behalf of my whore of a brother. He's a cockup, he really is. Shit, you probably don't even swing that way. I mean, he doesn't either. Crap."

"It's fine," Castiel interjected quickly.

"It isn't. My brother's a dick."

"No, I'll talk to him tonight. If you still want to see him, I wouldn't mention the kiss, if he was high," Sam said. "Just a word of advice."

"Okay. Thanks."

"Great. So, do you actually want a drink?"

\/\/\/\/\/

Castiel expected an awkward confrontation, Dean regretting kissing him and explaining that they shouldn't see each other for a while so things could cool off. He was not expecting a warm handshake followed by a drive in Dean's car.

He was in _Dean's car_. Dean had told him – repeatedly – that it was a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, or as he liked to called it, _Baby_. How sentimental.

Driving, he had been informed, was the best pastime. Dean loved speeding down the highways on the outskirts of the city, Castiel had learnt. He didn't understand the appeal, but he figured it was part of Dean's machismo personality.

Of course, the conversation always had to turn sour.

"Where did you buy this car, as it's very old?" Castiel asked out of curiosity.

"_Old?_" Dean was offended. "I didn't buy it. It was my dad's."

"Your dad gave it to you, then?"

Dean shrugged, "I suppose. Technically."

Castiel frowned, "What do you mean?"

"Well, he's dead now."

"Oh. Sorry. I didn't know."

"It's fine," Dean said. "He died a while ago."

Castiel was quiet for a few seconds. "Do you mind if I ask how he died?"

"War. He was a marine. He got shot. Dad was rarely home because of the army, so Sammy and I were alone most of the time. But he was in Afghanistan, and he never came home."

"Didn't you have your mother?" Castiel said.

"No, she's dead too." Dean's lips twitched into a small smile, but it was forced. There was no reason for him to smile. "House fire, before you ask."

Castiel's problems suddenly felt pathetic. He was whiny and only complained about his family, when Dean and Sam never had one. Both of their parents were dead. Castiel couldn't imagine what it would be like to live the majority of your childhood alone, without a parental figure.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Dean said again. "Really."

Dean was silent for the rest of the trip, save for asking where Castiel lived. He told him and Dean drove him back to his apartment. Castiel suddenly felt self-conscious, considering where he lived was mostly a hole for people living off loans.

Dean waved, ducking his head at Castiel, then once the door was closed drove away. He wondered if it was something he said.

He wondered if Dean remembered he kissed him, then felt foolish. He was such an idiot.

* * *

_**AN:**_ Where have I been? I swear, it's not my fault, really. I started this before Christmas, but I've been so busy. Every day I've been out doing something, and generally at night too. This is the first day when I haven't had something on. Anyway, find the Fight Club reference. I've decided I like the book's ending better than the film's.

Hope you like this, even though after so many weeks it probably isn't very satisfactory. I tried. It's still important plot, I think. It's needed. I'll try and be quicker with the next chapter, which will be a bit more exciting.


	6. The Sticky Times of Sexism and Sex

**AU:** So everyone hates me, okay. So I've been away for yonks! Okay! IN MY FUCKING DEFENCE [unneeded aggressiveness], I am in year 12 trying to do my HSC and in the middle of a crisis where I don't caaaaaare. Thus, have made a YouTube channel and decided I'm going to GET AN ARTS DEGREE. WHICH WAS THE PLAN ALL ALONG, BUT NOW I KNOW WHAT I WANT TO DO. WHICH IS JUST WRITE AND MAKE FILMS.

So have this shitty shitty chapter because I decided to MOVE ALONG WITH THIS BITCH and I promise you starting hopefully soon I will have something of a plot rather than go with the flow and wonder what the fuck I'm doiinngg. Now, to do this, I must ask the incredibly important question. Do we want ANGST OR HUMOUR? This can go both ways, buddy. Or it can be adords cute endings. Now, on with this chapter. Read, comment, tell me I'm a filthy whore.

* * *

"Oh, _fuck_."

That was new.

Castiel toppled over, crashed onto the floor and greeted a failed wardrobe. IKEA had beaten him, once again. Whoever decided on the brilliant idea of forcing the common consumer to build their own furniture was obviously an idiot.

He stared at what was supposed to be a wardrobe. It had no doors and one of its panels was the wrong way. Cas groaned. He stood up with defeat and sulked into the kitchen, turning on the kettle for a cup of tea.

When he had finally settled down on his couch with poorly brewed tea, his mobile rang. He picked it up grudgingly. "Narg."

"Cas?"

Cas' cheeks were red, "Dean. Right. Thought you were–"

"Someone else?"

"Related."

"Cute," Dean teased. "Thought you were Mr. Proper."

Castiel hesitated, "No."

"Whatever. Look, I want you to meet a friend of mine. And before you start protesting, she's really great and I think you two would be–"

"_Dean_," Cas sighed, already sensing where this was heading. "I don't want to meet anyone."

"Is it because of sex?"

Cas choked momentarily, coughing on his own spit, "Wha- no! Don't be ridiculous!" Sarcasm laced his voice. "I just don't feel socially competent enough."

"Screw that. Come over to the coffee house. Now."

The phone line went dead and Cas stared at the plain screensaver on his outdated mobile, in shock. A girl? He didn't want to feel like a teenager, but he felt like a teenager. His interaction with girls was a limited one, his closest friend of the opposite gender being Anna who was a _cousin_, and definitely not a sexual interest.

From what he knew, females were, despite being pretty, lethal creatures who held grudges and collectively believed themselves smarter than men. At least that's what he had gained from feminism. Of course, he felt somewhat sexist by simply being under that impression, and due to such confusion of gender balances had decided it best to avoid women altogether.

What was more of a worry, however, was the fact that it was Dean's friend. He was still uneasy about the party, what with the drugs and the drink and the general vibe of a Gen X-Y lifestyle. Was Dean's friend this way, too?

Hell, he was worried about this friend when he still felt uncomfortable around Dean. It had only been two days since they had last seen each other, but their last encounter involved the unfortunate deaths of his family while still a kiss was fresh in Cas' memory.

At least Sam hadn't told anyone. He knew he liked Sam.

Oh well. Cas heard life was about risks. And after his struggle with the IKEA wardrobe, why not go and be introduced to a girl?

\/\/\/\/\/

Dean looked undoubtedly pleased when Castiel entered the coffee house, instantly grabbing his bicep and dragging him through the busy hustle of coffee addicts and the like, taking him to the back of the store. He caught a smile from Sam who was busy at the register, giving him a friendly nod. Cas returned the nod with worry only to be jerked away. Then he was sitting down at a small and intimate table, sitting opposite him a woman in all definition: breasts and a soft face and tiny hands.

She wasn't like other girls he had seen. She had no makeup, and her hair was dark with natural waves. Her face was round, but more butch than cute, and her ears were free of studs and rings. She smiled at Cas, easily. It was the best he could put it. Everything about her seemed carefree, but unlike a tree-loving hippie she was simply content with who she was and undeterred by those around her.

"Hey, I'm Meg." She held out a hand.

Cas took it, nervously, "Castiel."

Then Dean was off, grinning lecherously like he had an ulterior motive and buggered off.

"Heard you used to be one of those religious kooks," Meg remarked, taking her hand away. There was no malice in her voice.

"Uh, yes," Castiel said, looking immediately worried when Dean disappeared. "I suppose so."

"Mm, I know your cousin, I think. Balthazar. Has the name. Who thought it was a good idea to give their entire family's name something biblical?"

Cas shrugged, "Not everyone. I have an Aunt named Naomi. And a cousin named Anna."

"Close enough." Meg paused. "Cas, you look like you're sweating in that coat. Is there something wrong?"

There were a number of things that were wrong, actually. Cas would like to get up and run away, but that considered rude. He would like people to discontinue associating him with his religious family – impossible.

Castiel said none of this. He took off his coat reluctantly and folded it, placing it on his lap.

Meg laughed, "Dean's right about you."

At this, Cas became suspicious, "Right about what?"

"Nothing. I usually don't take Dean seriously, him being a sap and all."

"A sap?"

"Expression. Sappy. I've made him cry, you know."

Castiel looked interested.

"Punched him in ninth grade. He asked for it."

Castiel frowned. "I don't think Dean is a sap."

"Of course you don't. You're in love with him."

_What? _Cas stared at her, both terrified and humiliated at the same time. How did she know?

Meg just chuckled. "He drunk dialled me," she answered Cas' silent question. "Started complaining about not getting any, but just before I decided he was being an overall douche he mentioned the gender and I became interested. Don't think I wanted to meet you for the simple reason of looks. I've got my motives, Cas."

"You know." Cas said simply. Was there much else to say?

"Of course I know. But don't worry, my lips are sealed. Heard the kiss sucked, though. You do get better with practice, trust me. My first kiss was a disaster."

Cas looked down in shame.

"I don't mean it like that, Cas. Dean's a complicated guy. But if you wanna date him, just go for it. Never be ashamed of rejection."

"He's not... gay."

"Are you?"

"I don't know." Cas admitted.

"Then take a risk."

Sigh. That work.

"I'm not sure. I want a friend. I don't understand why everyone tells me I need to date someone. I don't see why that's so important."

"Because society sucks and life is unfair, that's why."

Cas wasn't sure what to make of that. So much for giving up religion. Religion, society, seems to be the same thing, really.

There was an awkward silence.

"Does Dean remember?" Cas finally asked.

"Kissing?"

Cas nodded.

"I don't think so. He was smashed."

Cas looked down. "I think he ate the brownies."

Then Meg and Cas caught each other's eye. They laughed, stupidly and full of idiocy. Cas could tell he sounded stupid. And Meg wasn't laughing at him, she was laughing because there comes a time when one has to ponder the decision to lace, of all treats, _brownies_. Why couldn't it be something sensible? Or, as Cas thought further, was there a specific reason that it was brownies – the method of cooking? – as opposed to other desserts and or candy.

"I should get your number," Meg said and grabbed Castiel's wrist. She tugged it across the table, stifling a giggle while pulling a pen out of her bag. She scribbled digits onto the back of his hand, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth while she did so.

Cas grinned goofily at her, briefly forgetting social standards. "Can we watch a movie together?"

"Sure Cas, we can do that." She let go of his hand. "Whatever you want. It'll be great. Just us?"

Cas nodded, "That's okay?"

"Awesome. Then back at mine, order some pizza, yeah?"

"I... yes. Pizza."

Meg snickered. "You have a way with words, Lover Boy."

"L-Lover Boy?"

Meg only rolled her eyes. "I don't know if you'd be offended if I said I was being sarcastic."

Cas' cheeks burned red.

Meg stood up, "I can't stay too long. Call me. We'll organise a movie, promise."

Cas stood up too, a habit learnt out of etiquette from an uptight family. He dipped his head awkwardly, unsure of how to say goodbye. "Uh."

"Oh come here, noob." She took his hand and shook it, then leaned it and planted a light kiss on his cheek. "And you should shave." Meg noted before waving a final goodbye and leaving him standing alone by the small table. He probably stood there for another minute grinning his face off, being the idiot he was, until he noticed Sam giving him _a look_ and snapped out of it. He shrugged his heavy coat on then shoved his hands into his pockets, leaving briskly. He felt far too awkward lingering inside with the abundant amount of hipsters and other such sub-cultures of a similar style loitering within.

His car was parked a block away from the coffee shop. He unlocked it, hopped in and ignited the engine. It started with a _putputputputput_. Jesus, his car was terrible. If he had money, he'd definitely buy a BMW.

Cas didn't even have a job yet and he was dreaming of BMWs. Ugh. He drove home grumpily, again scowling at dawdling teenagers at pedestrian crossings.

He wondered, after his short yet satisfying greeting with Meg, if she considered the proposal of a movie a date. The problem was, he couldn't see the problem in that, which became a problem in itself. Should he be considering Meg a potential partner – eesh, he hated how guys made girls sound like sheep – or continue with trying to work out what it was about Dean that made him feel cheesy and like a cliché.

The simple truth was that people found genitals important in a relationship and Dean much preferred a vagina. Which was a hard concept to understand. Cas had managed to skip the exploration stage of a curious teenager. He never knew what desire was until now. Lust, he had been told, was a sin. Well, the same with everything else he had been doing. It was the very book his family preached that prevented gay marriage, that slut-shamed, that promoted sexism and other outdated ideas.

And here he was, wondering if he should, unpoetically, fuck another guy. Well. Won't his family be proud of him? They certainly were proud of Gabriel. (Note: sarcasm properly used by Cas.)

The less simple truth was that people were difficult to understand and sometimes a reputation wasn't who someone really was. Was it possible that Dean liked Cas? He didn't know. He honestly hadn't a clue. It was a slobbery kiss by a smashed, testosterone-filled partygoer who has, since that evening, acted as if nothing ever happened.

Fact: relationships are hard.


	7. The Average Gatsby

Castiel had been reading for the past two hours in a park on the side of a hill. A few yards away, a young woman was lying on her stomach, only wearing her underwear. Further away, there was a man who had been staring at the same tree for at least fifteen minutes. It was a quiet Wednesday day. Families came to the park with their children on the weekend.

The book was called _The Great Gatsby_ and he liked to think that the book, until it took a sudden turn, was an anachronistic version of his own life. What with the parties and the relationships and the secrets of a friend's life. Maybe Dean was Gatsby. Which, if so, could take a very dark turn and he hoped that if his life _was_ similar to _The Great Gatsby_ then it only included the partying and the leisure activities with friends, and the occasional reflection on a family memory.

He continued to read. He was more than halfway through the book. But his eyes were becoming tired and the sun had risen to the point where his neck began to sweat underneath his trench coat. Castiel finished the chapter and placed his bookmark inside, closing the paperback as he stretched his neck back and shut his eyes tightly. He opened them again and yawned.

It was remarkable how a city, no matter how large and loud and polluted and busy, could still have that one spot where all was peaceful. This was that spot. Unlike the road his apartment was on, this particular corner was all but a pocket of birds chirping and the dry leaves rustling in the cool breeze. Cars rarely passed by, unless looking for a particular house in the neighbourhood, or taking a scenic route to be envious of the American-sized houses owned by successful businessmen and their wives.

But what Castiel liked most was that the park was nothing more than a large area of grass with a few bench seats.

Castiel set the book down beside him and looked at the large house across the road, its front lawn mown to perfection and hedges without one branch out of place. He wondered who did the gardening – if it was a family effort or if there was a hired gardener. It didn't particularly matter, but Castiel was simply curious about the normal conventions of the traditional American family. It was nice to know that some Americans still lived in the time of the American Dream despite its inherent racism and the like. It was an aesthetically pleasing time.

"Who you reading?"

Castiel looked up. It was the braless girl with skin ten tones darker than his. Her tan was impressive and she obviously wasn't bothered by her naked breasts. Castiel blushed and looked in another direction conspicuously. "Fitzgerald."

She sat up and hooked her bra around her waist, then turned it around and slipped it over her breasts. "Gatsby, I assume. They always read Gatsby."

Now that she was somewhat covered, he looked at her face. "They?"

"People," she shrugged. "Not that I'm judging you. I'm just saying that it seems Gatsby is what everyone reads, and forget all the other work he did. I'm a lit major."

Castiel was glad he didn't judge her before she said that, because she looked liked your average beach babe with her very fortunate breasts and her long thin legs all complete with the done-up face of thick eyeliner and mascara complimented with hot pink lipstick.

"Then you wouldn't think much of me," Castiel mumbled. "I just started reading."

"What do you mean by that? You just learnt how to?"

"No, I mean, fictional books. Well, I read The Bible." He tried for a joke, wondering if God was making a reservation for 7 o' clock in Hell.

She got the joke and laughed. "We're all different. What else have you read?"

"I finished _Of Mice and Men_."

"Oh, that was beautiful. Cried like a baby. There's also a movie. It's very good."

Castiel nodded. "I might look for a copy, then."

She nodded, smiled then stood up, redressing. She put on her shorts and her see-through top, some flimsy thing that was probably supposed to be one of those fashionable things but Castiel could never understand the point of it.

"I'm Jade, by the way."

"Cas."

She shook his hand. "It was nice meeting you. Hope you enjoy the rest of Gatsby." And with that, she left for the street where her car was parked and drove off.

It was weird, how sometimes people were so socially inviting, and right before you can class them as some freak for talking to a stranger you learn that they're a lot brighter than you'll ever be. Castiel has never been to college, and never attended school. School was scripture and bible studies, with biased science classes and very minimal anything else. He was taught the more... agrarian ways of life.

He was also taught not to think of a woman until marriage, and only then you could fuck her, but when you were fucking her it only for the purposes of procreation.

Castiel heard God changing the time of the reservation to 5 o' clock for the fastest service to hell.

His eyes closed again, listening only to the sound of urban nature.

Jump forward and Castiel is walking the half hour walk back towards his measly apartment. He hated his car that much. It was because petrol prices were high, he had convinced himself. He had tucked the paperback underneath his arm and on his way had stopped at a convenience store for a can of _Dr. Pepper_ – a disgustingly sugary drink that Castiel had taken a liking to. He also bought some Milk Duds out of curiosity more than anything. That was when he realised he was low on change. He had found an ATM and withdrawn money from his bank account but found some unfortunate news.

The screen told him his balance was a pathetic $83.26 which was very worrying indeed. He needed a job. But where? He had no qualifications. He was excellent at reciting useless verses from the Bible. Castiel also – and somewhat surprisingly to the judging eye – was quite practiced in both fencing, some hybrid form of martial arts Gabriel had taught him, and various other combat skills that he wasn't sure why he was taught them. Needless to say, if someone wanted to steal his money (if he had any) and knife him in the back late at night, they'd certainly be welcoming a hospital bed for the next six weeks.

Castiel made it back to his apartment and after tackling the key into the resistant lock, threw the book and milk duds onto the couch and placed the can on the coffee table. Then he dropped onto the couch too, and spent a good ten minutes resting his feet. Walking was a hard trek on a hot day.

When he opened his eyes again, he caught a small yellow note stuck on his fridge. He frowned and got up, trying to remember what he put there. Then he remembered. A sticky note, reminding him to find a fucking job, because only then could he find love and be happy.

Well, he certainly wasn't being a productive member of society by sitting around his apartment all day. Castiel had to take some _initiative._

\/\/\/\/\/

Dean had never been in Castiel's apartment until now. He looked around the living room, stared at the very lonely entertainment system (of lack thereof), studied the very new books then went on an adventure much to Castiel's embarrassment into his bedroom and bathroom. Then he came back out and warned Castiel to hide his porn magazines better because one should at least have some decency_ for God's sake_.

Castiel didn't understand any of it.

"Only having a crack at ya. Anyway. So. You said you needed help."

Castiel nodded, ready to give him a pre-prepared speech about his inquiry of where to apply for a job that was suitable for one of his nature. But before he could get in one word, Dean had made a charge at the fridge and opened its door, searching for something edible and ready-to-go.

"Got any pie?"

"No?"

Dean made a clicking sound of disapproval. He closed the fridge door. Then he noticed a sticky note on the front.

Castiel forgot about that. How embarrassing.

Dean snickered, "Darling, you're killing me." He tore off the note and returned to Castiel. "Well, I know you got a car. I sold you it. We're working on the love part. Well. Makin' love. Same thing, a little less emphasis on the champagne and rose petals. And assuming you're always this..." Dean gestured to Castiel's face, "You're pretty content with life. So that's all good. But what you don't have is a job. That's what you want help with, right?"

Castiel nodded again.

Dean's face brightened, "And I got the perfect place for you."

"You do?"

"Sure, a little coffee shop on the corner of East Rosehill Avenue and Oxford Lane."

The smug bastard. "Working with you? In the coffee shop? Can I do that? I've never made coffee before, I think I wouldn't be very good with –."

"Shut your damn whiny mouth, Cas. You'll be a trainee. I'll train you. It ain't that hard once you got the hang out of it. And Sam and Jo and Ellen are all really great, they'll teach you how to be friendly to all the customers even if they're wankers."

Castiel hastily accepted the offer but no sooner than he did, he found himself in an uncomfortable polo shirt standing behind a counter that was a lot less attractive than what it seemed from the customer's point of view. There was grinded coffee spilt all over the floor. The heat from the coffee machine and the toaster was constantly in your face. Whichever asshole made working in a coffee shop look romantic on those ads obviously had never worked in a coffee shop.

"So this is Sam, you've met Sam," Dean introduced Castiel once again. "He's a stupid college student and works less. This is Jo," Dean gestured to the short, younger blonde, "who is way cooler than my stupid brother. And _this_," he gestured to the older woman who was giving Dean a dangerous look, "is the beautiful Ellen who you should absolutely be terrified of."

"Um," said Castiel.

Ellen rolled her eyes, "Dean's acting a child. I'm the boss of this place, Cas. Now, while we still have to work out the difficulties of paperwork, both Jo and Dean will be training you. Workwise, you won't be doing much except serving the customers."

"I see."

"You'll be fine," Ellen said encouragingly. "We'll discuss those papers tomorrow, prompt. For now, Dean, do something useful for once." She gave Dean a wink, then left into what Castiel could only assume to be The Office.

"As if I don't do anything," Dean grumbled.

Jo smiled, "You know she's only teasing. Nice to meet you, Cas."

Castiel would have said something back if his throat hadn't become suddenly dry, and he nodded awkwardly instead. He did a lot of that. Probably wasn't a good thing for the customers. He'd freak them all out. Business would go down. Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. He was going to screw up everything and Dean would hate him and tell him how on earth could anyone fuck up being a barista – it wasn't that hard.

Sam and Jo moved away, leaving both Dean and Castiel to a very large and very intimidating coffee machine.

Dean gave him a lecherous grin. "Ready for your training, my young pupil?"

"Um."

"You're supposed to say yes, Sensei."

"Yes, Sensei?"

Dean was ecstatic.

* * *

**AU:** I'm failing my HSC, aw fuck. I'm not editing these, I'm wasting my life. I also realised it's a lot easier writing a script to prose. Christ. Writing is hard. Anyway. Hope you like this. Things are happening! I don't know anything about baristas, but I have a friend who is a qualified barista. Yey. He can teach me the ways.

The girl at the start has no relevance, it was just an idea for the beginning of the chapter.

Anyone have any particular things they want to see? I'm going with the humorous plot so please, if you want something to happen then let me know.


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